More Than Them
by FanficwriterGHC
Summary: They're magnets for life as well, and now that they've survived, they need to learn to navigate a life that has ceased to be his or hers. Sequel to More Than This.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: More Than Them**

**Disclaimer: Just finished my internship application. Take from that what you will. **

**Summary: They're magnets for life as well, and now that they've survived, they need to learn to navigate a life that has ceased to be his or hers. Sequel to More Than This.**

**Author's Note: Sometimes stories just won't let go. If you haven't read _More Than This_, I suggest you do, otherwise you'll be utterly lost.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong>

He guides her into the apartment, both of them dragging, feet heavy, bodies weary, limbs uncoordinated and sloppy with their movements. He locks up and they don't even bother with pretense, chucking their jackets onto the chair by the closet, slipping off their shoes and leaving them by the door.

No one's home.

He smiles as she turns to look at him, now a good five inches shorter than he is—the perfect size. He reaches out to haul her into his chest and she comes willingly. Her forehead brushes his chin as she lets her head drop to his shoulder, arms wrapped around him, her body melding into his, all planes and curves and Kate.

One of his hands strays up to burrow into her hair, massaging through her thick locks and down to her scalp. She hums in contentment and he lets the other hand trail over her back as he stares at his apartment. Every time they nearly die he's always struck by how completely regular it looks here—how nothing changes even when he's watched his life flash past his eyes.

But something's different this time, something warm and soft in his arms, breathing against his neck; Kate is here with him, and it makes all the difference in the world.

He could stand there all day, content with her wrapped around him, in love with him. But he's starting to sway on his feet and he can feel her trembling, adrenaline leaving them in waves that crash down, pulling them under, heavy, hard, falling.

"Water," he murmurs to the top of her head, squeezing her back before gently pulling away.

She looks up at him, a smile on her face, and he's glad to see her with a little more color. Though, maybe it's a blush. He did manage to slide his palm over her ass on the way down—accidentally, of course.

"I almost want to say screw food and just stand in the shower for an hour," she admits, running a hand self consciously through her hair.

"I really would rather clean your cheek, but if we don't eat and drink, we're gonna pass out," he replies, taking her hand and bringing her through to the kitchen.

He leaves her at the counter and rummages in the fridge for two water bottles, pulling out a container of dumplings as well. He throws the carton into the microwave for three minutes and brings the waters to his partner, who's now slumped down on one of the stools.

He hands her the bottle and she looks up, curling her fingers around the plastic as she twists off the top. "Thanks."

He nods and takes a swig from his own. The water is cool against his throat, parched and dry and gone completely unnoticed until now. He watches in amusement as she drains her own bottle in time with his. They laugh quietly at the absurdity of it all, of chugging water together, of being in his kitchen under the warm lights, near the roaring fireplace, of being together here in his home, alive.

The microwave dings and he grabs the container with a cloth, bringing it over with two forks. It's not elegant, and they tear through the food in a matter of minutes. It's not much either, but they have all night to make more food, or order a pizza, since he can't imagine having the energy for anything more.

She sighs as they hit the bottom, briefly battling over the last one. He gives in. He always will. Though, giving her the last dumpling is hardly paramount to giving her heat in a freezer, or his body in a collapse; but as neither of those seemed to do much good at the time, he's happy to surrender the last of their snack.

She slumps forward and pushes the carton out of the way, pillowing her head on her arms, her face turned to him, injured cheek carefully held away from her skin. Her light-grey sweater would look more fetching without the soot from the subway and the smear of blood he thinks is probably from his own hand.

"Come on," he says softly, hauling himself up and extending his hand to her as she eyes him with contempt.

"Counter's comfy," she protests, and it's the closest to whining he thinks he's ever heard her.

"Shower will be warmer," he entices, hiding his smile, because he knows it'll just infuriate her that he's amused by her right now.

She gives a heaving sigh and lets him pull her up, wrapping his arm around her waist as he steers her through the office and into his bedroom. The fact that they don't stop at all as they make their way to the bathroom is a testament to how tired they truly are.

It honestly should be more awkward, trailing her through his loft—through the parts of the loft she's never seen. Her eyes remain fixed ahead, sometimes flicking to their feet to make sure she doesn't trip, instead of looking around, taking in the details of the parts of his life he's only ever hoped to share. But he's hell bent on cleaning her cheek and cleaning them both off before they collapse in his bed, and he can't take the time to let her look around.

Someday, he'll probably wistfully wonder if there could have been another trajectory, one full of passion and things falling off the side tables, pillows cascading to the floor. But tonight isn't about sex. It's just about them, and he smiles as they step into his bathroom. Without a woman there to impress he tends to let his room get a little man-cavey. But he cleaned about a week ago, and for that he's absurdly grateful.

He guides her over to the sink and clears some of his things away before gripping her waist. He bends and lifts her up, laughing at her gasp of shock as he easily plops her down on his counter. She weighs almost nothing—nearly the same as Alexis.

She shoots him a look as he moves around her, reaching up to her left to grab the hydrogen peroxide and rubbing alcohol, snagging a bag of cotton balls as he goes.

"I'm not a sack of flour," she informs him.

He nods, as if it's new information, and brushes the hair away from her injured cheek, leaning close to examine the wound. It's not too deep, but there are little flecks of dirt within the narrow gash, and they need to come out. He opens the peroxide and flips the bottle over on a cotton ball, setting it back down when the little puff is soggy. She watches his movements with curiosity and a softness that throws him as he brings the ball up to her cheek, gently patting it over the cut.

She winces as it fizzes, not out of pain, but out of shock at the sound, he assumes.

"Any pain?"

"No," she says, meeting his eyes. "But the alcohol's gonna be a bitch."

He gives her a sad smile and prepares another one while he blows gently on the cut. "Ready?" he asks as he brings the cotton ball up to her cheek.

She nods and he swipes it across, recoiling at her hiss of pain. He likes taking care of her, but not if it involves watching her in pain. And he knows it's minor—a passing moment, a slight sting—but it cuts into him, some remnant from the day behind them.

"Sorry," he murmurs.

She lets out a small breath as the stinging subsides and opens her eyes to meet his, one of her hands reaching out to rub at the corner of his eye. "Needed to be done."

He nods and she smiles, gripping his arm as he tosses the cotton ball into the sink. "We need to clean your hand too," she says, tugging until his injured right hand is in her lap.

She squeezes his wrist before reaching out for the peroxide, repeating his process on his hand. But her fingers are gentle and once every little bubble has fizzed out of the cut, she blows across the back of his palm, her breath soothing and cool. The alcohol is another story. It burns, intensely, and he can only remember the feeling of his knuckles after he attacked Lockwood; it's the only pain in his hands that beats this moment.

"You really have to stop hurting this," she says, meeting his eyes, apparently there with him in the memory. "Kind of your livelihood."

He chuckles as the stinging subsides, watching the way her cheeks dimple as she smiles at him. She's so beautiful—dirty and beautiful.

"We should shower," he says, and suddenly his voice sounds about ten times louder than it has for the past five minutes, perhaps and octave higher too. Because now he's talking about water, and her naked, and he really doesn't want to send her upstairs, or do the gentlemanly thing and take the lesser shower in the guest bathroom.

He doesn't want to leave her, which is absurd, because they're just fine.

"Kind of trapping me," she says lightly, and he realizes that he's still standing in the vee of her legs.

He goes to step back, but her hand is at the nape of his neck before he can move, and then she's pulling him in to press her lips to his. It's slow, and tender, and calm, compared to the saddened frenzy of their kisses in the room. He lets his hands run up and down her sides, can't help himself, and she sighs into his mouth just before she pulls away.

"I'm going to fall asleep in the shower if we don't do it soon," she says and he thinks his eyes nearly fall out of his head, his brain pulled in far too many directions by the comment.

She smirks and pats his cheek before pushing on his chest to force him to step back. She slides down from the counter and slips around him, leaning into his walk-in shower to turn on the water. Then she spins around to face him and they stare at each other. The white tile of the floor and lower walls only serve to make the dirt stand out. They're well and truly filthy, with flecks of blood and dust and black, from something—maybe the floor—all over their clothes and skin.

He opens his mouth, pauses, and shuts it. What does he say? Does he just…start taking his clothes off? Will she smack him? Will she do the opposite?

He watches as something settles over her face—something serene, if he has to give it an adjective. Then she reaches down and tugs her sweater up and off her body, leaving her in a white tank top and red bra. He grins and she laughs at him. He can't control it. She's wearing a bright red bra and, shit, lifting her tank top off, leaving her in only the bra and her work slacks. And even dirty, tired, and slightly maimed, she's the sexiest thing he's ever seen.

"You gonna gawk or are you joining me?" she asks with a smug smile as she unzips her pants, watching as he peruses her body unabashedly.

He feels himself fumbling with his own shirt, yanking it off without really noticing. His fingers undo his fly and he pulls his pants down as she stands there in that red bra and black lace panties. And then they're staring at each other in their underwear, with steam pouring out of the shower behind her. If he weren't so thoroughly exhausted, he likes to think he'd be ripping those scraps of fabric from her body, devouring her neck, letting his hands ravage her body, and pushing her up against the glass.

She gives him a smile, as if reading his mind, and reaches behind her to undo the clasp, shimming the garment from her shoulders. He knows his eyes should be drawn to her breasts, bare before him, but he can't seem to look at anything but the little puckered scar between them—the mark that proves that she's alive, she's lived, she's risen from flames and ice and earth.

"Castle," she says gently, bringing his eyes back to her face. "Come on."

He nearly trips out of his boxers as she slides that last scrap of lace down her legs, kicking it off to meet the rest of their clothes in a disheveled pile on the floor. Her fingers reach out for his and he takes her hand, letting her pull him into the shower, stunned.

The water is warm and smooth against his skin and he sighs, watching as she lets it slick through her hair in the opposite stream, her arms raised above her shoulders. She's gorgeous. Dirt sluices down both of their bodies, turning the tiles beneath them brown and red, but he doesn't care.

He reaches out for her, pulling her into his chest so that he can look down into her face, can run his hand through her wet hair, smooth his thumb beneath her eye across her uninjured cheek.

She reaches up and rubs gently at his forehead, wiping away a smudge he remembers seeing briefly in the mirror. "Shampoo?" she asks, her hand falling to rest on his shoulder.

He nods but doesn't move, too captivated by her eyes and the feel of her slick, naked body pressed up against his. He just wants her closer, wants to stay this way, wrapped around her for the rest of the night. But it doesn't last.

She gently pulls away, pressing her cheek against his palm as he sighs. His eyes stray from her face, trailing down her body to settle on the little scar at the center of her chest. He finds he's not really thinking as he bends, wrapping his arms around her to arch her up to meet his lips. The skin is rough beneath his mouth and he presses four kisses there, assuring himself of her life and her breath and the fast pound of her heart.

She gasps softly as he makes his first contact and one of her hands comes up to fist into his hair, the other bolstered on his back to make sure she doesn't fall.

"Rick," she murmurs, her voice a whisper above the water and the sound of their mingled breath.

He stands, supporting her as she regains her footing. "I'm just so glad you're alive," he says, feeling his heart running down his arms, pouring over his non-existent sleeves. He just doesn't have it in him to keep it bottled up tonight.

She searches his eyes for a moment and then raises up on her toes to press her lips to his in a soft kiss. She pulls back, arms around his neck, and feathers her lips over his jaw as she works her way back to his ear. It's all he can do to stay standing, and he clutches at her, overcome.

"We're alive," she says before she presses a kiss to his ear.

He hums and takes a step back to bring them both under his showerhead, reaching out to grab his shampoo from the shelf to his right. She squeaks, grabbing onto his shoulders to stay upright. He laughs and lets his head rest against hers where she's still wrapped around him.

"It'll be pathetic if we end up the hospital for slipping in the shower," she says as she slides back down his body to step away, extending her palm for a dollop of shampoo.

He shakes his head and gently turns her around so he can rub his soapy fingers through her hair, lathering it until she's dripping a deluge of white bubbles down to the floor, her head tipped back, eyes closed. He ignores the sting on the back of his palm—can't find it in himself to care, not when she's humming like that, her hair sleek in his hands. He smiles and guides her fully under the spray, washing the shampoo from her hair. He runs his fingers through it, softly tugging out the knots until it runs smoothly through his fingers.

She sighs and blinks as he tips her head back up. "I don't have any, uh, girly conditioners," he says with a small shrug. "But it should comb out."

"I'll live," she decides, taking the bottle back from the shelf and pouring a portion into her hands. "Bend," she instructs quietly.

He does, rather unable to believe that Kate Beckett is washing his hair without a care in the world for the fact that his face is now level with her chest. He certainly doesn't mind. Whatever she's doing with her fingertips against his scalp has to be one of the best thing he's ever felt, and the view of her amazing body doesn't hurt either. She straightens him up after a moment and walks him back into the opposite spray, reaching up to scrub the suds from his hair.

He blinks, rubbing the water from his eyes, and she looks around. Her eyes light up and she grabs a loofa from the far corner of the stall, pouring his body wash onto it and soaking it until it's a ball of suds. She smiles and steps closer, laying one hand over his shoulder as the other runs the loofa across his chest.

He watches, rather fascinated and in awe as she washes the dirt from his body. She steps around him to get at his back and he sucks in a breath as she places the loofa on the shelf to their right, melding her front to his back, her lips meeting his top vertebra in a soft, open kiss.

She wraps her arms around him and he brings his injured hand up to cover hers where they meet at the base of his ribcage. He feels her move against his back until her chin rests on his shoulder.

"I'm hungry," she says, her breath tickling his ear.

He laughs quietly. "I was thinking pizza?"

She nods against his shoulder. "Sounds good."

He goes to turn around, to return the favor, to enjoy the freedom of running his hands over her body, but she shakes her head. "No, stay," she whispers, laying her cheek down on his shoulder and taking a deep breath.

He smiles and turns his head to press his lips to her forehead, now clean and free of dust and dirt. He catches her answering smile out of the corner of his eye.

"We're gonna wrinkle," he says and she laughs, her hands squeezing at his chest.

"Fine," she huffs, releasing him and stepping around so that she's standing in front of him again.

He feels the loss of her keenly and wastes no time in reaching for the loofa, tugging her in to wash her back by wrapping his body around hers. He bends his head to press his lips to the column of her throat, smiling against her skin when she sighs and angles her head away to give him greater access. Her body is smooth beneath his hands, and really, he could be doing more with the loofa, but he can't resist the feel of her under his fingers—the way she shivers against him when he brushes over her side to bring his soapy palms to her stomach.

He pulls back to watch his hands moving along her abdomen and then he gasps, information flooding his brain.

_That's around the time I got my tattoo_.

She wasn't kidding. She actually has a tattoo. She laughs as he drops to his knees, eager to get a closer look at the little phantom butterfly on her hip, pointed wings unfurled in greens and blues that contrast starkly with her pale, creamy skin.

He doesn't really give thought to the fact that he's kneeling before her, naked, his hands bolstered on her hips, face close to a place he's only dreamed about. He's just so fascinated by this little spot of color—so very unlike her now.

"Why a butterfly?" he asks, looking up at her face as she watches him, one of her hands coming to rest on the side of his head, threading through his hair.

She closes her eyes for a moment and then opens them, preparing herself for a secret he figures she didn't realize she'd lay bare tonight. "They're free," she says quietly. "And at the time, that's all I wanted."

He nods contemplatively. He can see a young, wild Kate laughing and dragging a friend—Maddie?—into the tattoo parlor, demanding this tattoo. And for all that it signified, the freedom, the trip across the country to Stanford, the release from the confines of a nice New York life, she wound up right back home, more caged than before.

His lips press into her stomach without thought, because he hates the idea of this woman caged—of all of the cages that still settle around her, around them. He's joined her in the dark, and together, he hopes they're finding the light, removing pieces bar by bar until there's nothing left but freedom.

He chuckles as something else sneaks back into his mind.

"What?"

"It's a blue butterfly," he laughs, looking up at her, watching the realization crash over her face, until she's laughing too.

"I didn't think…"

"Well, it certainly isn't fake," he grins, leaning down to run his lips over the ink, her skin just as sweet there as everywhere else.

She smells a bit like him tonight, and he enjoys the change, but also can't wait until she walks out of his bathroom smelling like her, bringing her body wash and shampoo into his bed with her, all cherries and vanilla.

"I would hope it's not," she says, her fingers soft as they card through his wet hair. "Or cursed."

He shakes his head, his nose brushing her stomach before he presses one last kiss to her skin. He hauls himself up, accepting her help until they're chest to chest, clean and shiny, bodies seeking strength and comfort.

"No, I think you're safe," he says as they stare at each other. Her stomach rumbles and they laugh, foreheads pressed together. "And hungry."

"Pizza, right?"

"Yeah," he nods, closing his eyes for a brief moment, soaking in the last of Kate Beckett naked in his arms, in his shower, before he turns and shuts off the water, quickly walking them out and onto the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. He grabs two large fluffy towels and wraps one around her before tying his own around his waist.

He watches as she dries her body, efficient, but probably letting her chest bounce more than is truly necessary, just because she can. He's not objecting. She grins at him as she finally wraps the white terrycloth around her body, tucking it in against the side of her breasts as she moves around him to grab his comb. He watches as she runs it through her hair, pulling at the latent tangles with a small grimace. She's adorable, and he has to bite his cheek to keep from saying so.

"Do you have a hair tie?" she asks, turning to him with an arched brow, like she knows he's been observing her, and doesn't mind. It makes his chest clench comfortably to know that she likes having him watch her putter around his bathroom.

"Huh?"

She's short circuited his brain and she has the audacity to laugh. "Hair tie, Castle?"

"Uh, not on me?" he manages. "But, Alexis or mother might."

Kate shakes her head and wrings her hair out into the sink. "I'll let it dry. You'll just have to deal with the mess."

"You're beautiful," is the first thing out of his mouth in response and he fights the urge to smack himself. There are better, more appropriate, and damn more romantic moments to say such things.

Then again, the look she gives him, tender and grateful and loving, says that she doesn't mind. "Thanks. Now, come on."

She takes his hand and pulls him from the bathroom and into his dim bedroom. He leaves her, suddenly back in his right mind, and rummages for a pair of small-ish sweats for her. He snags a dress shirt from the couch in the corner and hands them to her before he grabs clothes for himself.

They change without discomfort. They've already seen and touched and caressed each other; what's a little more skin, really? Though, as the last of her lithe figure disappears beneath his clothes, he feels his suppressed want bury itself beneath his affection, waiting until the moment they have more energy. He's going to have to work very hard not to completely ravish her the moment they wake up tomorrow.

But that's a challenge for then. For now, he wants to soak up the image of Kate dwarfed by his clothes, rolling up the sleeves of his deep purple button down, her hair leaving dark stains around the collar and shoulders.

She tosses him a smile as he reaches for the landline on his bedside, punching the fifth key for the pizza place on speed dial. He follows her with his eyes as she wanders around the room, speaking distractedly to the poor kid on the other end of the line. But if he could see what Castle sees, could watch Kate as she picks up picture frames and flips over books, he thinks the kid would have trouble speaking too.

He hangs up, stomach already churning in anticipation. "Fifteen minutes," he says as she looks up from a photo of him and Alexis at the museum, staring up at the tyrannosaurus, mirror images of wonder on their faces.

"Great," Kate says as she gives him a smile and places the picture back on the shelf. "Will you judge me if I fall asleep right after we eat?"

"Will you judge me if I fall asleep while we eat?" he laughs, walking over to take her hand and bring her out through the office and into the living room.

"My gun," she sighs as she sinks onto the couch, looking over toward her jacket. "It's locked but I shouldn't just leave it over there, right?"

He grins and jogs to the door, his muscles protesting his every move. But he's not about to pass up the opportunity to put her gun into his safe. It's just too cool.

She's laughing at him when he comes back from his office, the gun protected and out of the way, where his mother and daughter cannot accidentally find it.

"What?" he asks, plopping down next to her where she's sprawled out, legs pulled up beside her, knees bent, head bolstered on her arm along the back of the couch.

"You've shot that gun," she says as he slides himself beneath her, shifting her head from her arm to his shoulder, wrapping his own arm around hers. "I would think it's lost some of its appeal."

He looks down at her, comfortable and relaxed against his body, content in place of terrified, seeking nothing but physicality—no caving ceilings, no bombs, no freezers, just them.

"Perhaps out in the field," he agrees, carding his fingers through her damp hair. "But I've never had your gun in my safe before."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: More Than Them**

**Disclaimer: Maybe in another dimension…**

**Summary: They're magnets for life as well, and now that they've survived, they need to learn to navigate a life that has ceased to be his or hers. Sequel to More Than This.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2:<strong>

They're nearly catatonic when they finish eating. She's practically in his lap, her head on his shoulder, legs tossed over his, one hand toying sluggishly with his collar while the other tangles in his hair. If he weren't nearly asleep, the hint of her fingers against his neck beneath his tee shirt would have significantly different results, but now, with her breath against his shoulder and her warm weight settled over his body, she's doing a fantastic job of lulling him into slumber.

"Good pizza," she mumbles, sleepy and lazy, her voice a little rough after the day behind them.

"I'm cooking for you in the Hamptons," he replies, though he can barely imagine getting off this couch, let alone doing something as complicated as cooking, or driving.

"M'kay," she sighs, and he watches as her eyes flutter shut.

"Kate," he chuckles, pressing his lips to her forehead. She whispers something unintelligible and cuddles closer. He could get used this Kate—the snuggler. He might even love her more than badass Detective Beckett, because he's the only man who gets to see her like this.

"Kate," he tries again, in time with the turn of the lock to the front door.

He looks over at the entryway and smiles at his daughter as she trudges in, her bookbag over her shoulder. She was studying at Paige's tonight, he thinks, maybe. Everything before the collapse is a blur in his brain, hazy and slow.

"Dad?" she asks, walking over to stand at the edge of the couch, her eyes wide as she takes in the woman in his arms, usually so stoic and strong around his daughter, now curled in his lap, asleep on his shoulder. "What…is everything okay?"

"More than," he smiles, his thumb tracing patterns on Kate's thigh. "We had a rough day, but everything's fine now."

Alexis narrows her eyes, looking from the pizza to them and back, obviously taking in Kate's state of dress and the fact that both of them still have wet hair. "What aren't you telling me?"

So much. "Nothing, Pumpkin."

"Is it about the…case?" she asks, her voice much softer, fear creeping onto her face—a fear he's tried so hard to quell, to take the burden onto himself.

"No," he says quickly, happy that he can be honest about it. "No, it had nothing to do with that. We got locked in a room for the better part of the day, but otherwise, it was uneventful."

"Locked in a…" Alexis trails off, perplexed. He's not about to mention that they were nearly crushed to death too. Shades of the truth will have to do. "But, uh, I'm…you're okay?"

He nods and reaches out to take her hand, pulling her down so he can press his lips to her forehead before she straightens up. "We're just fine. Exhausted, but just fine, I promise."

She nods slowly and he surpresses a laugh. Breakfast the next day is going to be so delightfully awkward. He almost can't wait, and has to wonder what that says about him. "How about I get Kate into bed and come out to give you a kiss goodnight?" he suggests as Kate snuffles slightly in her sleep.

"Okay," Alexis hedges, watching as he gently shifts his partner from his lap and stands, cracking his back.

With less effort than he expects, he manages to lift Kate off the couch and into his arms, bridal style. He staggers a little as he gives Alexis a smile and makes his way through the office. It's a good thing his bed is so close by. Kate weighs next to nothing—and he decides to start getting Italian more frequently—but she's still a grown woman, and he's no movie-theatre-prince.

He settles her under the blankets, brushing the hair from her eyes as he pulls the comforter up to her shoulders. She twitches and blinks an eye open, peering up at him in the darkness.

"Hey," she gruffs out, heavy with sleep. "You carry me here?"

He smiles and crouches down so they're face to face. "I'm just gonna talk with Alexis and then I'll be back. Go back to sleep."

Her lips twitch upward as she reaches out for him, tugging him in by his collar until she has his lips pressed to hers. He chuckles into the kiss, which she can't quite control, and she growls at him.

"I'm trying to be romantic, Castle," she says as he pulls away.

"We have all the time in the world for romance. Sleep now, wake me up later," he says, smiling what he's sure is a dopey grin. He doesn't care. This exquisite woman wants to romance him, loves him, is sleeping in his bed.

She nods into the pillow as her eyes fall shut and her breathing evens back out. He could stare at her forever, but he's got a kid waiting for him in the living room, and so he stands with regret and no small measure of pain from his abused muscles. As much as he'd like three days in the Hamptons, they might have to settle for two. He's not sure he can make the drive tomorrow—not if his legs still feel like this.

When he returns to the living room, Alexis is sitting on the couch, one leg pulled to her chest as she stares out at the room, her lip between her teeth.

"Hey," he says, closing the office door behind him.

"Hey," she parrots, giving him a small smile. "So," she prompts as he sits, surpressing his groan.

"So," he says, chuckling as she frowns at him. The two women are eerily similar that way—the way they can make him clam up or open up about anything with merely a look. "Things with Kate are…different," he offers.

"Obviously," she snorts. "How different? And how much of this has to do with whatever happened today?"

"A good deal, and none at all," he says, laughing as his daughter huffs. "It's been building. We're at a good place right now, I think."

"How good? Should I be offering pleasantries or pulling out paint samples?"

He blinks at the abrupt question. She's not pulling punches tonight. Though, she's got every right; she's smart, his daughter, and she knows when he's not telling her the entire story. They've been through it enough times for her to know that he won't be telling her anytime soon either.

"Somewhere in the middle, Sweetie," he says, giving her a smile.

Alexis nods contemplatively for a moment. "Are you happy?"

"Very," he replies honestly.

"Okay," she says, smiling. "I do like her, Dad."

"I know you do." He runs a hand over the back of her head. "Do you like her enough to come with us to the Hamptons this weekend?"

Alexis eyes him strangely. "Seriously?"

"We've got a few days off, and we're both feeling like…getting out of the city." Smelling roses, reveling in open sky, leaving their cell phones behind and forgetting about everything that's been in the way for so long—getting out of the city will have to cover it all.

Alexis bobs her head as she takes it all in. "Paige and I were thinking about going up to Princeton for the weekend, actually. Her brother has friends we can stay with, but, um, thank you for the invite."

He feels his heckles rising, the urge to go super-dad almost too much. But he can't push her now, not when she's accepted Kate so easily. He's not going to fool with that.

"Then have brunch with us before we go tomorrow?"

Alexis smiles and he sees nothing but delight in her eyes, for what, from what, he's not sure. But he's not about to question it. "That sounds good, Dad," she says with a soft smile. "Now go to sleep."

He laughs and leans in to give her a kiss before standing slowly, almost making it without any sounds. Just a tiny groan escapes, and he flicks his eyes down to find Alexis watching him, scrutinizing his every move. He smiles and starts for the office, hoping to make a quick escape, but her voice calls him back.

"Can you do me a favor, Dad?"

He turns and meets his daughter's eyes, full of concern, love, and infinite patience. Someday, he'll figure out where she got that from. It's certainly not from him, his mother, or hers.

"Anything," he promises. Because even though it would rip him in two, he'd stop shadowing Kate if she asked. He just holds his breath, hoping she won't. It might wreck them both.

"Try not to die for another few months, okay? I really don't want to be bringing you to graduation on a stretcher."

She says it with laughter in her eyes, but he hears the undercurrent there, the worry. "I promise, Pumpkin. We're doing our best."

She nods, watching him for a moment. "Get a good night's sleep, Dad."

"Goodnight, Alexis," he says softly as she turns and heads for the stairs.

He lets out a slow breath and opens the office door, creeping through and into his bedroom, where Kate is sound asleep in his bed, one hand pulled beneath her pillow, the other curled up to her chest, right over her scar.

He stands in the doorway and watches her sleep for a long moment, uncaring of how creepy it may be, or how lovestruck he must look. It still astounds him that she's alive, every day, and more so on days like today, when they've almost died. And, of course, there's the added shock that she's alive, asleep, in his clothes, in his bed—that he has run his hands over her living, breathing, beating, beautiful naked skin, felt her lips on his, on his own body, on his heart.

He steals into the bathroom and brushes his teeth, uses the bathroom, stares at his reflection, trying to see whatever his daughter saw. He sees the bags beneath his eyes, the slight remaining pallor to his skin, the way he sags just a little bit more than usual. But he sees too the sparkle in his own eyes, the lift in his face, the smile he can't quite contain. He'll never forget this day, for the collapse, for the terror, and for the overwhelming feeling of rightness her words instilled in his chest. For the ache she soothed, for the woman in his bed.

He returns to his room and climbs under the covers, luxuriating in the feeling of his sheets and the pull of her body. She draws him in, even in sleep, and he finds himself completely invading her space, sidling up to her on her side of the bed to slide an arm over her stomach. She doesn't startle, and so he gently pulls them back into the middle of the bed before he buries his face in her neck and slides and arm along beneath his pillow to rest just above her head beneath hers.

Her hand falls to curl onto his, threading her fingers into the spaces between his own. "Hi," she rasps out as he presses a kiss to her shoulder, curling around her to get a glimpse at her face. "Ev'ry thing 'kay?"

He smiles. He can't keep up. Every new thing he learns about her makes him fall even harder. Highest on the list now is the way she slurs her speech when she's on the brink of sleep.

"Everything's fine. Sleep, Kate."

"Mmm, love you," she mumbles and he decides he's wrong. That's the best thing he's ever heard—her sleepy, unguarded, 'I love you.'

"Love you too," he whispers, slipping a leg between hers as he kisses her cheek and then slides back behind her, pulling her as close as he can get her. "See you in the morning."

He falls asleep to the steady rise and fall of her body beneath his hand, and he can barely believe that just this morning, he was hoping she'd maybe let him help her into her coat. Now she's in his bed, snoring every fifth breath. Her hand squeezes his and he smiles into her hair. He's keeping her. This is it. There's no going back now.

(…)

He's having the most amazing dream. Kate's lips run over his neck as her hands skate over his chest beneath his tee shirt, fingers tracing lazy patterns as she nuzzles closer. He reaches out to touch his phantom woman, letting his hands explore her body, pushing beneath his shirt, enjoying the way the fabric brushes against the back of his hands while her skin slides smoothly beneath his palms.

"Morning," she whispers.

He smiles and tugs her closer still, seeking out her lips as his eyelids flutter. He tries to keep them closed, wants to savor the moment before he wakes alone. But the moment never comes. Her lips are hot over his, her body shifting to sprawl across his chest as she laughs into his mouth.

"Wake up, Castle," she chides and his eyes pop open to find Kate Beckett in his bed, her chest pressed against his, eyes wide and sparkling with mirth above his face.

"I'm awake?" he says, half question, half statement, all confusion.

He lets out a yelp as her nails squeeze his belly button and she grins. "I'd say so."

"That's mean," he pouts, though it feels more like a grin; it probably is. He can't possibly be anything less than thrilled right now.

She's actually there with him, warm on top of him, smiling, tired face lit up with happiness, even with the scrape across her cheek.

"How's your hand?" she asks, reaching out to gently pull his right hand from her back.

He almost tugs away, wanting to savor her skin beneath his fingertips, but she gives him a look, half amused, half demanding, and he repents. She peers at his hand, now a mess of reds and purples, clucking her tongue.

"We should probably ice this," she decides, bending to place a gentle kiss to the wound that steals his breath away.

"But you just made it all better," he protests. Icing a busted hand is painful, and he doesn't want any pain today—just her, and breakfast with his kid, and the open highway on the way to the Hamptons.

She laughs and he can't help but stare at the easy joy on her face. He can't remember ever seeing her laugh like this; he's never seen her like this, and he can't get enough.

"We'll argue later," she says, shifting off of him.

"Don't go; stay in bed," he protests, reaching out to snag her waist as she tries to roll away.

"Castle," she laughs as he turns onto his side and traps her with his body, pulling her back against his chest, lifting a leg to keep hers both on the bed. "It's nine already."

"Still early," he counters, bending to skate his lips up her throat, smiling as she sucks in a breath.

"We went to bed at what, eight last night?"

"Shh," he mumbles, bending around her to pepper her face with kisses as she turns back to look at him.

"I'll still be here if you let me get up, you know," she says quietly.

He pulls back to meet her gaze, confused. He has no doubts that she's sticking with him for the weekend, and beyond. If she was going to bolt, she'd have done it already.

"I know," he says easily, hoping that the nonchalance in his voice will help her believe that he believes in her. "I just like it here in bed."

"If you let me get up, and feed me, you can like it in bed in the Hamptons," she says after a beat, and he watches the last of her insecurity fall away—at least he hopes so.

He has no trouble playing along. "Will you be wearing something sexy?" he teases, expecting her to pinch him or roll her eyes; instead, she just smiles a slow, alluring smile, and looks up at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I might not be wearing anything at all," she says evenly, her smile growing as his jaw drops. "But you have to let go if you want to find out."

His arm goes slack and she wriggles out from beneath it, laughing as she stands and looks down at him, sprawled out, completely in awe of the tease beside his bed, swimming in his clothes.

"Can I run my stuff through the washer?" she asks as she walks into the bathroom, leaving the door open as he lies there, trying to remember how to move his body. "Rick?"

"Uh, yeah," he calls, trying to school the grin at her use of his first name. He just loves the way it sounds when it's unattached to something serious or teasing—just her, brushing her teeth with his toothbrush in his bathroom.

He fails, the smile splitting his face as he leans against the doorjamb, watching as she holds her hair back and spits into the sink.

"What?" she mumbles around the brush.

"Nothing," he laughs, stepping inside to grab the comb on the counter, attempting to get his hair into a semblance of order.

Kate spits and then passes him the toothbrush as she takes a few sips of water to rinse out her mouth. He nudges her with his hip and brushes his teeth while she plays with her hair, finally sighing and pulling it back into a ponytail. He's a bit disappointed; he rather liked the waves she had going. The way they fell into her face and she kept blowing them out was cute.

Then again, Kate in a ponytail, bending down to pick up her discarded clothing isn't a bad image at all. So he'll settle. Hell, he'll take her drooling and dirty if it means she's on her way to wash her clothes in his house.

He whistles as he finishes getting ready, throwing a few changes of clothes and some toiletries into a bag as he goes. He's still stunned, dazed, and elated over the very idea of taking her to the Hamptons for the weekend. And though they can't just turn back the clock—can't erase the other people, the bullets, the bombs, the freezers—he feels like they're getting a fresh start anyway. A new beginning for a them that might actually last.

He wanders through the office, listening to an animated conversation between his daughter and his muse, girlfriend, love, partner, soon-to-be-lover (if he has any say in the matter). His eyes flick to the smartboard in the corner and he stops moving, his chest tightening with realization.

In the haze of yesterday, he didn't think to mention it, didn't think about his own secrets. But he has them. And the wall she's talked about might not be there right now, but will is slam up the moment he mentions the case? Or will she accept his actions, understand that he couldn't include her, that he was waiting until they needed to open it up together?

"Dad?" Alexis calls, and he realizes that he's standing in the doorway to the living room, silently freaking out. Great.

"Morning, Pumpkin," he says, plastering on a smile as he walks to the kitchen, noting Kate's narrowed eyes. The woman doesn't miss a thing.

"Kate's making waffles," his daughter continues, oblivious to the looks flashing between them over her head. He's grateful for that, at least.

He shakes his head lightly, silently saying, 'later,' before sidling up next to his daughter to watch Kate as she continues pouring batter into his waffle maker. It's astounding how good she looks in his kitchen.

"You didn't need to cook," he says as he squeezes Alexis' shoulders. Kate smiles at him with a small laugh.

"Felt like it. Your kitchen's huge."

"Yours isn't much smaller now," he muses as he reaches for a strawberry. The woman works fast, though, maybe Alexis helped a little. How long was he actually standing in that doorway?

"Do you cook much at home, Kate?" Alexis asks.

Kate gives him a look to stop the reply that tries to tumble from his lips. "Sometimes," she shrugs. "I'm usually too busy."

"Her refrigerator is a take-out shrine," he mock-whispers in his daughter's ear.

Kate whacks his uninjured hand with her spatula and Alexis laughs. "I don't think you're gonna win, Dad," she says, patting him consolingly on his opposite hand.

He represses a hiss of pain and Kate's eyes soften. She puts the spatula down and walks to the freezer, pulling out a bag of peas before glancing around. She spots the towel and wraps the package before handing it to him as he unwinds his arm from his daughter's shoulder.

"What happened to your hand?" Alexis asks, looking between them.

"I honestly don't know," Castle replies and Kate presses her lips together to keep from laughing. They share a glance that's as much amusement as it is a silent, 'thank God we're alright.'

"You don't…"

"Knicks and scrapes can be as much of a shock after the fact as the chase itself," Kate supplies quickly. "I don't remember how I got this either," she adds, pointing to her cheek.

In the bright light of the kitchen, he notices that the cut is a nice, even red line, with no pink around the edges. Thank goodness for small favors. He should see if he's got any maderma or vaseline lying around for her; his hand can scar all it wants—would be rather manly, actually—but he's sure she doesn't want another memento of yet another brush with death.

They fall silent for a few minutes while Kate finishes the waffles and Castle moves around her, peas wrapped around his hand as he struggles to make coffee and grab plates. He makes sure to let the fingers of his left hand trail over her back as often as possible and she shoots him a look. He grins back, unashamed. He's taking her to the Hamptons, so she can lie naked in his bed, preferably deliciously sated and panting; he could care less about her fake-glare right now.

"When are you guys leaving?" Alexis asks as Kate passes her a waffle.

His daughter watches them shrewdly, though he sees no reproach there. It looks more like fascination, and he can't really blame her. He's fascinated by this twist in their relationship as well.

"We," Kate begins, staring at him pointedly. He realizes he's tuned out, letting images of their shower flood his brain. Can she blame him, really?

"We were thinking we'd eat with you and then head to Kate's to grab her stuff," he says, accepting his own waffle with a kiss to his partner's cheek.

She swats him away with a smile and follows him around the counter, sitting down on his other side, leaving him between the two most important women in his life.

"You're going to Princeton this weekend?" Kate adds in, grabbing the syrup before he can reach for it.

Alexis laughs at them. "Yeah. Did you apply there? Dad mentioned that you ended up at Stanford."

Kate nods and he's proud to see no jealousy in his daughter's gaze—just curiousity. He knows it's not just for the Detective's educational past either; Alexis has been fascinated by his muse for almost as long as he has, even if there were times when she'd have rather he forgot all about her.

"I think I did all the Ivys and a few states," Kate muses, wrinkling her nose in recollection. "It was hell. I feel for you."

Alexis nods emphatically. "Applications sucked. But at least they're over."

"The waiting's not much better though, is it?" Kate ventures, and he feels his chest swelling, overflowing as he listens to these women talk around him, as if he's not even there. He can't even pretend to be insulted by it.

All too soon, Alexis is kissing him on the cheek and heading up the stairs to pack her own bag while Kate moves around him, cleaning. He watches her for a moment before joining her at the sink. He reaches for the sponge but she pushes his arm away.

"You'll hate yourself if you get that soapy," she says, nodding toward his swollen hand. The peas helped, but she's probably right. "Dry for me?"

He smiles and leans in to press his lips to her cheek before he walks around her to wait on her other side, towel at the ready. They work quietly, sneaking glances at each other, and he thinks they're ridiculous—two grown adults looking at each other beneath hair and bowed heads.

"What had you so thoughtful?" she asks. Ah, maybe he was being five and she was working up the courage to ask him. He would rather they be children.

"I," he pauses and weighs his options. He can bring her to the Hamptons, fall more in love with her, and then break her heart, or he can come clean. He's far beyond tricking himself into pretty fantasies and happily ever afters. He wants his life with this woman, and if the four years with her have taught him anything, it's that the good guys don't always live, and happily ever after is as elusive as the meaning of life.

She cocks her head, silently urging him to continue and he sighs. "I have something to show you," he says quietly, and even he can hear the resignation there.

She frowns and takes the hand he extends for her. The walk to his office feels like a death march and those beautiful visions of her on his big white bed seem to crack and split into versions of her storming out, slapping him, punching him, sobbing and screaming.

"Rick," she murmurs.

He realizes that they're standing in front of his smartboard already and he closes his eyes before reaching around her to grab the remote on his desk. He straightens back up and looks into her eyes with his heavy heart ramming against his rib cage.

"About a week after you came back after the summer, I got a phone call," he begins, and her hand tightens around his. "I don't know who he is, really, but he told me that if you didn't stop investigating, they were going to kill you and Roy's family," he recounts, pushing the button on the remote so that the screen flares to life.

Kate sucks in a breath and stares at her own face, her hand slack in his. With extreme regret, he reaches forward and taps her nose, expanding the vast array of information they've amassed.

"I couldn't tell you to stop," he continues, his voice hoarse as she stands there, mute. "But I couldn't let you get killed, or Roy's family, Evelyn—so I…"

"Told me to stand down," she provides, and some part of him registers that there's no malice there, only quiet softness. He doesn't quite know what to do with that. "But you didn't."

Ah. "No," he agrees. "But I haven't gotten very far either."

"This is new," she remarks, dropping his hand to walk forward and press the Mayor's picture. "Why is Wheldon on here?"

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. He's digging a hole he's sure he can't climb from, but he owes her the anwers, and she hasn't stormed out yet, so he ploughs onward. "Smith, the guy, calls me during the case and keeps saying 'listen to the evidence,' that there was more at stake than a one woman's death."

"But you don't know what," she surmises.

He shakes his head. "All I know is that Smith wanted Wheldon to stay where he is—something about a pawn being more powerful than a king. The Mayor keeps me at the Precinct—"

"To keep me off the case," she completes, and he's struck by how quick her mind is. He shouldn't be; she's extraordinary. He's always known that. "I wish you'd told me," she says and he feels his heart shatter at the toneless quality of her voice.

"I couldn't," he replies. "You were so hell bent and if I'd given you even the name Smith—"

"I would have gone and gotten myself killed." He blinks and works his jaw, but no sound comes out. "I get that."

"You," he manages, but can think of nothing else to say. He doesn't understand. Where's the yelling and screaming and 'we're done, Castle?'

"But before now," she explains, turning back to him, her face a confusing mix of emotions he's can't name or keep track of. "Why did you do this? Why would you risk this? Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? How it could just as easily be you the next time?" she hisses, but it's a muted anger that he can't understand.

"I can't watch you die again," he roughs out, finding his voice behind the lump in his throat.

She nods contemplatively, her hands fisting at her sides. He watches as she sorts things out in her mind, her eyes moving quickly, from his face to the board, up and down. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, as if she's holding back words, reprimands, slaps. His heart hammers in his chest and his breathing speeds up. He can't stand the silence, can't stand not knowing if each passing second is the last of whatever it is they've started. Or worse, if each passing second is the end of everything they've ever had.

Finally, she reaches out and plucks the remote from his hand, turning and pressing the large button so that the screen blinks out. "No more," she says and he gapes at her.

"What?"

"I don't want you investigating anymore."

"Kate, I…"

"You think I can watch you die?" she asks vehemently and he's sure he isn't breathing anymore.

All he can do is rasp out her name, gutted by the intensity of her gaze.

"You think I could come back from putting you in the ground? You think that wouldn't kill me as much as it would you? What about your daughter, and your mother?" Her eyes pierce him as she steps in front of him, raising his uninjured hand to press the remote roughly into his palm, curling his fingers around the device, his arm caught between them.

"No more, Castle."

He nods, unable to refuse her anything. He can't apologize, not for keeping her safe. But she's not looking for an apology, not with the way she's searching his face, his eyes—not with the way her chest rises and falls in controlled, even breaths against his.

"You're not mad?" he asks, wishing he could take the question back as soon as it passes his lips.

"I'm furious," she says softly and his entire body sinks. Her hand squeezes his where he holds the remote, and it's almost painful. But there's something in the gesture too, something warmer, more like affection, a bond, a them that might be stronger than the pictures and all the death. "But you promised me a weekend in the Hamptons."

His eyes pop open—he didn't even realize he'd closed them—and he stares at her, astounded. "I…"

"Your good heart and your idiotic brain don't always come up with the best schemes," she says, and he hears the supressed bite, the emotion she must be shoving down somewhere—somehow astoundingly holding onto this fragile thing between them. "But you're a good man," she tells him, reaching up to press her palm to his cheek, her voice stern. It's not quite a caress, but it's far from a slap, and he figures he'll take whatever she's willing to give. "Don't do it again."

"I won't…I mean, if you're in danger, but—" Her fingers find his lips and he clams up, waiting for her next move. He may make a stink about it, but she's the leader here, and he'll follow her wherever she wants to go, especially if it's still to the Hamptons, with him.

"We'll deal with your hero complex another day," she chides. He opens his mouth around her fingers, desperate to explain that it's no hero complex; it's her life, and he better damn well protect it, but she beats him to it, her eyes wide and clear, the conflicted clouds lifted and drifted away somewhere. "And I love you for wanting to keep me safe."

He swallows and she laughs softly, pushing her fingers against his mouth for a moment before dropping them to rest at his hips. "Let it go for the weekend."

"Will you?" he asks, unable to understand how she's still there, caressing his hip, even though he knows she's mad, and hurting, and broken—the pieces that are his fault will always weigh heavily on his shoulders, even as he finds the glue to help her put herself back together again.

She leans up and pulls his face down to hers, running her lips over his, her teeth nipping at his lower lip for a moment that's entirely too short. She leans back and meets his eyes, and he's astounded to see that all he can find is love and exhaustion staring back at him.

"Take me away, Rick," she whispers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: More Than Them**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Castle characters, just the original ones in my head.**

**Summary: They're magnets for life as well, and now that they've survived, they need to learn to navigate a life that has ceased to be his or hers. Sequel to More Than This.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3:<strong>

Her socks don't match.

He can't help but sneak glances at her feet, propped up as they are on his dashboard while she bops along to The Police, a mutual decision they've finally come to after an hour of bickering over the radio. Eventually, she gave in and pulled out her Ipod, scrolling until he called out for her to stop.

Now, she's drumming on her thighs and mouthing along to "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic," and he's utterly captivated. But he has to drive, and so he settles on sneaking his looks at her. He can tell that she's onto him by the quirk of her lips as she throws her head back for the chorus.

She looks so free and light and it eases some heavy thing in his chest—something that has felt like summer to him all through the fall and winter. But now, it feels like spring, like air filling his lungs for the first time in months and months. He's not fully convinced that she's left it all behind, can't quite believe that she could. He's having trouble.

But the effervescent woman next to him, with the wild hair and odd-socked feet lifts his spirits, and he decides that he doesn't care whether they've truly left it all behind them in the concrete jungle of their city. They're together now, and he can dive into that, immerse himself in Kate for days—forget about the world and exist only in her.

"You're quiet," she says above the music as the last chords fade away.

"So are you, well, feigning quiet," he teases, opening his mouth to sing along to silent lyrics.

"Shut up," she laughs, picking up the Ipod and scrolling until she finds her Michael Jackson albums. "You love it."

"I'm certainly not complaining," he replies, reaching blindly between them for the bag of M&Ms they brought from her place.

He misses a few times, managing to palm her thigh at least once. After a minute of fruitless searching, she finally gives in and grabs his hand, placing a good portion of the little candies into it for him.

"Thanks," he mumbles around the candy, suppressing a grin so they don't tumble from his mouth when he hears her muttering under her breath. But she loves it. He knows. She's terrible at hiding it, and has been for the better part of the last year.

Especially now, it's easy to spot as she smiles out the window, her hand falling to rub at the place his fingers found on her thigh. She likes to think she's a mystery, but she's not. Well, she is, but some parts of her aren't, and he can't wait to peel off those layers and find every last un-mysterious part of this women—can't wait to revel in knowing her and loving her.

"How much longer?" she asks a few minutes later, when they've both given in and sung along to "Want You Back."

She has a truly lovely singing voice. "Maybe an hour," he decides, checking for landmarks. But it's all highway, and he hasn't seen the Hamptons since the summer, and only briefly then.

She sighs contentedly and cranks the volume for "ABC." He listens as she sings, throaty and rich, seemingly without a care in the world for the fact that he's never, ever seen her like this. The glance she shoots him tells him another story though, one full of understanding, and trust, and giving—giving him this gift of her freedom and resilience.

It doesn't take anything more for him to reach out for her hand, threading her fingers through his. He'd pull her out of her seat and over the console too if he didn't have a certain need to follow the law today.

He has a rule; he has to wait a day after every near-death experience before he taunts the universe. Then again, perhaps he's already taunting the universe, if the gentle scratch of her nails against the center of his palm is any indication.

When the song fades away, she turns her head against the rest to watch him, her thumb rubbing circles against the back of his hand. "So what is this place like?"

"Forty-five minutes and you'll know," he chuckles.

She frowns and pulls one leg onto the seat with her as the other drops to the floor. "Come on, you know you want to tell me."

"What if I want you to be surprised?" he tosses back, just because he can. This is their thing, and though he likes the showers and sleeping, and loves the idea of her writhing beneath him, he enjoys their game.

"If you really wanted me to be surprised, you would have flipped that photo of you and Alexis in front of the house in your room," she says, her voice triumphant. "And really, house is kind of pushing it, don't you think? You should call it a mansion."

"First, I was in no state to pre-plan this surprise last night, thank you. And second, I know, it's huge," he agrees, laughing as she tugs on his hand. "But calling it the manse is a little pretentious."

"True," she says, reaching out with their joined hands to grab an M&M, a dexterous feat she manages with just two fingers. "But house really isn't fair either."

She brings their hands up to her mouth and pops the candy inside, her tongue somehow grazing his thumb as she goes.

"Now who's not playing fair?" he gasps out, his breath caught in his chest. She just licked his finger. The tease.

"Oh come on, it's not as much fun if I have your permission," she says and he can hear her smirk, though he refuses to look at her.

"I haven't given you my permission," he counters, tugging their hands back toward his side.

"Actually, I wasn't aware that I needed your permission," she says as she draws their hands back to her chest and bends to feather her lips over his hand, turning to find his pulse.

"Kate," he mumbles, trying to figure out just how it is that she can bring him to his knees this easily. Her lips close over one of his fingers and he groans. "Gonna crash the car," he manages and she pulls away from him with an audible pop that does nothing good for his current state.

"You're evil," he offers, tugging his hand away from hers because the glint in her eye spells anything but a quiet rest of their trip.

"What'sa matter, Ricky? Can't take the heat?"

He glances over at her and meets her sparkling eyes defiantly. "I can take the heat just fine. I'd just like to be able to walk when we get to the house."

She laughs, loudly, her beautiful voice ringing around the car. It takes him a moment, through the haze of desire and taunting that fills his brain, but then it clicks, and he grimaces.

"Things getting a little hard for you over there?"

He chooses not to answer and secretly delights in the way she laughs into the back of her palm, watching him in amusement. He loves her like this—can't believe she's like this, now that he's laid himself bare, exposed his secrets. He can't believe she's given the case up, let it lie, decided to live her life with him, sharing herself with him.

"Hey, you with me?" she asks, her voice softer, more affectionate.

"Yeah," he murmurs, flicking his eyes over to meet hers. "I'm here."

(…)

She's standing on the deck when he makes his way back down the grand staircase, their suitcases safely tucked away in his bedroom. The double glass doors are thrown open behind her and the chill sea breeze wafts around the first floor, rustling the pages of books he's left lying around on the coffee table in the living room.

He stares as she stands at the railing, her hands planted firmly on the soft wood as she leans forward into the wind, her hair whipping back behind her. She's exquisite and he can't move for a long moment, mesmerized.

Eventually, the cold gets to him and he ventures onto the porch, walking with a measured tread he's sure she can hear. She doesn't turn but offers her hand, taking his to pull him against her side, their fingers twined together on the railing.

"It's gorgeous," she says, her eyes on the choppy sea at the end of his small, private stretch of beach.

"Passes the test?"

"No test." Her fingers squeeze his and he watches her face as she watches the sea.

He smiles and leans down to press his lips to her shoulder. "Sorry it's not sunny."

She shakes her head, staring out at the gray sky above the murky water, riled by the coming storm they can see on the horizon. "I like the storm."

"Derrick Storm?"

She knocks her head into his, lips pressed together, suppressing a smile. "Your ego."

He grins against her shoulder and snakes his hand from hers to scoot around her body, letting his hands fall on either side of hers, her back pulled flush with his chest. He hears her let out a small breath before he presses closer, shifting her until she's standing straight. She leans back into him, letting him take some of her weight, and he releases the smooth wood to wind his arms around her figure, fingers digging and twisting into the simple white tee shirt she wears beneath her NYPD sweatshirt.

His cheek finds its place against the crown of her head and he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sea and the sand and his muse, soft and fluid against him.

"What do you want to do?" he asks, his voice drowned slightly by a rush of wind that whips up the beach.

"Walk before it rains?" she suggests, her hands coming to rest on top of his, fingers working their way beneath his palms so his traps hers against her stomach.

He nods against her head and reluctantly pulls back, stepping away from her for a moment to close the deck doors so that they have some warmth to come back to. It's perhaps 45 degrees out, and the wind makes it colder, but he can see the appeal in taking the walk—the open sky, the vast expanse of water, her fingers threaded through his, shoulders bumping.

She's dragging him down the deck steps and out into the sand before he really notices. She laughs as she pulls him out into the middle of their stretch of beach, her face alight as she sinks and rises in the sand, both of their sneakers filling with tiny rounded glass. He's never really been able to reconcile the soft sediment with its shattering counterpart; but he's developing a new appreciation for it, if it means he gets to watch Steely Detective Beckett laugh with delight as he slips after her, running behind her as she heads for the water.

She stops suddenly as she skids to the edge of the breakers. He's not nearly as graceful and nearly topples them both into the frigid water as he hits her back. She laughs and stumbles with him as he tries to balance them back out. But she's steady in his arms, and once they've stopped teetering toward the steely water, she leans back against him, taking up their position from the porch, but now with the sea playing chicken with their toes.

"I love the wind," she says over the slosh of waves and whip of air as it whistles past them.

He nods his head against hers, pulling her tighter against his chest. He has a need to have her close, to savor the peace that surrounds them, even with the storm baring down on their little stretch of haven. The open sky, the water, the wind, the clouds—he cherishes all these things he was unsure of seeing, feeling, experiencing again, much less with the woman resting against his chest.

"You should see it in the summer," he says. "When we can swim in the water and stay out all night, build a fire."

She hums, trailing a finger up and down his arm, raising more goose bumps than the chill around them has already. After a moment, her fingers thread through his. "Sounds nice."

He wonders if it would have been like this two years ago—them, wrapped around each other, quiet and calm together. Somehow, he always envisioned them here with more teasing, more taunting, with her in a skimpy bikini and him working tirelessly to get it off her.

But this—this is better, this is real. "We could have everyone up," he continues, letting his thoughts find purchase on his tongue, lips against her ear. "Memorial Day, Fourth of July. There's enough rooms."

"Especially if we're sharing, right?" she murmurs, and he grins.

Perhaps there's still teasing to be done. The thought settles something in his gut—the idea that they're still them, just a newer, shinier, more cohesive version of the them they've been.

"Well, it would be strange if the lord and lady shared separate quarters," he chances, waiting for her move.

"Were we a lord and lady, that would be standard."

"Yes, but this is modern nobility I'm talking about," he argues, letting one hand release his forearm to trail up her stomach until she bats him away with a laugh.

"Of course you are," she tosses out, her head falling back against his shoulder so she can look up at him. "I'm also betting that you have the best bed."

"I think I'd rather let you test that theory," he mumbles, his lips at her temple.

And as much as he wants her flesh, feels the carnal need building slowly, he's wanted this for years. He's wanted her pliant against his chest, existing with him rather than beside him—sharing his sandbox rather than watching him from the swings. He's a man, with his needs, and they roar beneath the surface, but with near-death staring down his back, he finds that he's perfectly content on the beach, in the cold, wearing sweaters and pants and shoes.

"Can we walk along the beach?" she asks, tearing him from his thoughts of summer sunsets and more weekends spent just like this.

"Yeah," he says, bending to feather his lips over hers, because he can. "Barely anyone's up this time of year."

She smiles and puckers her lips to reach his where he's resting a breath away. Then she gently pulls from his arms and takes his hand, stepping back from the water to wander down toward the rock outcropping in the distance. They walk at the edge of the wet sand, where it's steady beneath their feet, but they're safe from the angry breakers.

Somewhere in his head he recognizes the darkening clouds and the pick up of the wind as they meander, but she's telling him about the summer she and her parents spent in Jersey, renting a house, and he's too enthralled by her tale and the way her eyes sparkle in memory to care about the coming weather. So he lets her guide him down and around as the shore curves, until they're almost a mile from his house.

She looks over at him and comes to a stop to reach up and brush the hair from his eyes. She opens her mouth for a question, but he watches as a raindrop hits her forehead, stalling the thought. They tilt their heads up to the dark sky as more and more droplets begin to fall.

"Trapped in a collapsing station, then struck by lightning—no one would let us live that down," she laughs as thunder claps over the sea.

He smiles and wraps himself around her, pressing his lips to hers as the rain begins to fall in earnest, soaking them through without effort. But her lips are warm and soft beneath his and she opens her mouth, a cavern heat he takes time to plunder and explore, before a shiver wracks her slim frame.

"Don't forget hypothermia," he whispers as they break apart, chests heaving, eyes just a shade darker than before, fingers pressing more deliberately into giving flesh.

She laughs and steps back to take his hand, letting him tug her back toward his house. It's fun for a few minutes as rain pelts them and their heavy shoes begin to clump in the sand. There's something free and live about it—about being caught in the rain together, where nothing can crush them.

But he feels the cold seeping past the fun, past the joy of what they wanted yesterday, when hope seemed so far beyond their imagination. The icy chill of the agitated sea spray and the rain, too warm for ice, but too cold for spring showers, pounds at them and he feels her slow down as he does.

"We're almost there," he says as his teeth chatter.

He observes her, lips lightly purple as she smiles at him. "I think we'll make it," she teases and he growls, lunging to spin them around.

She laughs, at him, at them, at the fact that he's concerned for her in only a rain shower. But how can he not be, when he's felt her blood spill through his fingers, seen her lights go out as tears stream down his nose? It may just be rain, and he's certainly up to the task of warming her up, but the pallor of her skin brings back too many near misses, and one only yesterday.

Her laughter softens and then she turns and takes his hands, jogging up the beach with him trailing behind her, eyes flitting from her damp hair to her ass, hugged by wet denim. He's concerned, but he's still a man, with a woman with astounding assets running in front of him. He's admired her legs before, stolen glances at that denim-clad rear, eyed her chest more than once, and he does so enjoy those moments.

But the smile she gives him as they hit the deck and clamber up to stand beneath the roof, panting—it's the most amazing thing he's seen on her. It beats everything. All the smiles, all the looks, even the kisses and press of her naked skin cannot top the way she's looking at him now, all softness and happy contentment.

"What?" she asks, wringing out her hair.

"You," he replies, the answer tumbling from his lips. He doesn't care. She's there. They're even—secrets exposed—and she's standing on his porch, finally at the Hamptons house, finally his.

She shakes her head and takes his hand, throwing the doors open and hurrying them inside. He closes the sliders behind them and they stand in his kitchen, dripping water onto the terracotta tiles, skin unsure of how to react, to relish the warmth or shiver away the cold.

She shakes and he lets out a laugh. "Come on. I have a bathtub the size of your walk-in."

"I don't know that I approve of you taunting my closet," she grouses as he leads her up the stairs, their shoes left in a puddle near the door.

"You'll approve when you see my tub," he coaxes, smiling as she stumbles into him as they make their way across the soft-wood hallway on the second floor, slipping and sticking in wet socks.

"As long as it's warm," she chatters, the hand not threaded through his tucked across her stomach, preserving her feeble heat.

He can't help but agree as his shirt sticks to his back, a plane of frigid fabric over his frozen skin. That bath sounds more like heaven every second.

He guides her into his bathroom, squinting as he turns on the bright lights, illuminating the wall to wall tan tiles. He hears her let out a loud breath at the sight of the sunken tub in the corner, spanning an entire quarter of the room. It's a Jacuzzi and sometimes makes his hot tub obsolete, especially when they can have privacy in his ensuite. Plus, with the huge, tinted windows that look out on the ocean, he honestly can't think of a reason to ever leave his room again. Not when he's got Kate Beckett shedding her sweatshirt to reveal her soaked white tee shirt.

"What?" she asks as he toes off his soggy socks, watching the way her chest moves with her stilted breath. "Really?"

He grins without shame. She's his, and he's seen what's beneath that shirt. He has ever reason to leer. He keeps his eyes on her as he moves to the corner of the room and turns on the taps, letting hot water fill the tub, steam erupting into the air.

"What is it about men and white shirts, anyway? Wouldn't you rather see it without the fabric?" she asks as he turns and steps closer, trailing the bottom of his jeans along the floor, leaving the tiles glistening in his wake.

"Yes," he replies, reaching out to help rid her of the drenched shirt, lifting it over her head, watching the way her stomach muscles ripple in the cold.

She meets his eyes as she lets her arms fall to grab the hem of his own shirt. He lifts his hands and together they pry the garment from his skin. He tugs her into his arms as soon as he's free, and this time it's his hands that find the clasp of her frozen bra, freeing her and letting it tumble to the floor.

She smiles up at him, hair plastered to her face as the mirror behind her begins to fog. His brain short circuits as her warm fingers trail down his stomach to find his belt buckle. She smirks as she pulls the leather from his hips, dropping the belt with a clatter that rings around the room.

"Out," she commands softly, tugging on his pants once he's clumsily undone his fly. They crumple stiffly to the floor, his boxers not far behind.

He returns the favor, taking longer to brush his fingers beneath the waistline of her jeans, against her satin skin. She shivers, this time from pleasure not cold, and he grins, leaning down to run his lips over her neck as they free her from her jeans, sliding her panties—today a deep purple—down her legs.

And then they're naked. It's still new, still marvelous, but they're less star struck, less hesitant. Her hands glide up his chest to rest behind his neck while his span her entire waist. Her figure fits within his palms. She's so slim, so lithe, so very, very hot, the way her mouth slants over his and her small breasts press into his chest.

The sound of water breaks his concentration and he turns, bending with her still in his arms to shut off the faucet. He steps in first and holds out his hands for her, helping her over the edge of the tub, though she needs no help from him. She takes it anyway, and he might love her even more for that—that she lets him take care of her, sees his gestures for what they are, hasn't run screaming with hatred for his having tried to save her.

And as she snuggles back into his chest, the near-scalding water relaxing all of his strained, frozen, tensed muscles, he gazes out the window in awe. This woman has stuck with him, past his secrets, past her secrets, past so many things that, were they any two normal people, would have torn them apart. Hell, if they were normal, they never would have ended up here. She would have been in and out of his bed after that first case. She'd have been nothing but a memorable blip, as sad as that thought makes him.

But she isn't. Instead, her fingers trail along his thighs, nails scraping in a gesture that's far from innocent as they lounge in his tub in his summer house in the dead of winter.

"Kate," he groans, letting his head fall back against the padded rim of the tub.

"Hmm?" she responds, and he knows just by the sound that she's smirking, thoroughly enjoying the overwhelming power she has over him and his body. "Something the matter?"

He chuckles and lifts his head, only to bend forward and latch onto her neck, his hands splaying out over her stomach. She sucks in a breath and her body goes slack against his, her hands gripping at his thighs as he lets his hands trail higher.

She turns her cheek, halting his movements as they stare into each other's eyes. "I'm taking this tub home with me," she says, smiling, her eyes crinkling in happiness, her body wriggling beneath his wandering hands.

"How 'bout we just keep coming out here?" he suggests as he leans down to press his lips to her nose.

Her smile grows and she leans up to press her lips to his. "I'll settle for you, I guess," she whispers as she pulls away.

"Settle for me?" he gasps, mock-affronted even as he laughs along with her. "I like to think I rank above the bathroom accoutrements."

She grins and brings a hand up to cup his cheek, dragging him into another kiss, her tongue sweeping along his bottom lip. He shifts so he can crowd her against the wall of the tub, engulfing her with his body, eager to feel all of her. One of her legs hooks over his, and it's an accomplishment that they don't sink in a pile of jumbled limbs and heated kisses.

When they break for air, panting, hearts unable to keep up, she rests her forehead against his, warm breath coasting against his mouth.

"I suppose the tub won't take me to bed," she whispers.

He grins, letting a hand run down to cup the back of her thigh. "The only person, man, or thing taking you to bed, is me."


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: More Than Them**

**Disclaimer: My dorm room begs to differ.**

**Summary: They're magnets for life as well, and now that they've survived, they need to learn to navigate a life that has ceased to be his or hers. Sequel to More Than This. Complete.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4:<strong>

"I am an idiot," she mumbles into the comforter, her words a muffled combination of sated lust and exhaustion.

"Oh?" he says, his lips pressed to her calf, hands kneading her tight muscles while the rest of her lays limp in his big white bed, her hair a drying haze of curls and waves, beautiful brown against stark white. Her skin, her body, her sex-reddened lips—the woman exudes allure, pull, magnetism.

He feathers his lips behind his hands as he presses his thumbs into her muscle, eliciting another groan from the beauty in his bed.

"Could have had your magic hands for longer," she moans as he finds a tight bunch, pressing in small, rhythmic circles.

He laughs against her leg, though the idea pounds at his gut. They could have had more, longer, together. They could have weathered bombs and freezers and bullets together, rather than apart. He knows. He's realized that something happened that summer he came here with Gina, when the comforter was blue, when the bathroom was a wash of beauty products. When there was a blonde in his bed, rolling out to check her email.

He's spoiled now. There can never be another woman in this bed. He can't watch different fingers twisting into his comforter, can't fathom different eyes staring into his, hazy, can't comprehend a different mouth, panting, open, kissing, gasping.

"Castle," she sighs as his hands slow over her legs, sliding up to tease the undersides of her knees as he stretches over her, his chest to her back, an inexorable need to feel her against him pulling him up.

He pushes the comforter out of his way as he slides against her skin, so soft, so pale and clear.

"Is that all?" he asks, unsure of the question, of why he'd bother to ask. He has her now. The what-ifs won't do anything for them.

But the words are out as his lips kiss the shell of her ear, moving to caress the mark he made below her lobe. She turns her head, brushing her nose against his as she looks at him in her peripheral vision.

"Is what all?" she roughs out. She has an amazing bedroom voice; Trapper John was right. But it's not so much the voice as the look in her eyes that spurs him on.

"Just my magic hands?" He doesn't know where the insecurity comes from, wishes he could find the bravado he might have felt even two days ago. But there's only so much a man can take, and when the close-calls toll up to seven or more and he can't even count straight, he finds that his bull fighting cape and shield are damaged and dented.

She turns slightly beneath him, just enough to tilt her face to see him clearly. Her eyes search his, and he hopes she can find what he wants to ask, because he can't seem to figure it out—doesn't know what he needs from her, which hardly seems fair. He would be the needy one after sex, making love, multiply and thoroughly ravishing the hell out his girlfriend, partner, muse, lover, love.

"More than your magic hands," she says, as if it should be obvious. And with the way she's looking at him, maybe it is.

He nods, pressing his lips to her high cheekbone. "Then I'm a bigger idiot," he breathes out. The fall might fall to her, but the springs and winters and falls and summers behind them weigh on his shoulders, blunder and misconceptions all.

She shakes her head and reaches back to tug him down so he rests on top of her. "Kate," he protests.

"You're warm," she murmurs, smiling at the huff he lets out. Not that it doesn't stroke his ego that she wants his full weight on her, but she's so small, and he's a large man—larger than he wants to be most days.

But her hand comes out to work beneath his, nimble fingers wiggling under his digits, falling into place like her hands are meant to fill the gaps in his. And he sees her smile, the way her eyes fall shut, and he decides he loves the fact that Kate Beckett likes his weight on her. He's shocked by it, really—never expected her to be so wanting, so needing, in bed.

But she gives back just as much as she takes, a touch for a touch, kiss for kiss, a stroke and caress for each and every he gives her. But she doesn't dominate. He wouldn't mind, and he certainly didn't do all the work—the images burned into his brain still stir things in his gut, even with her bare beneath him—but she doesn't take complete charge. She likes him above her, likes to let him lead, encourages, begs, laughs. Free. She's free, and it sets him on fire, inside and out, in his brain and body and heart.

He watches her, resting some of his body on his hands, just enough to satisfy himself without letting her know that he's holding back. He figures she'd realize it if she wasn't slowly falling asleep beneath him.

"Kate," he laughs, nudging her cheek with his chin. "Don't go to sleep."

She cracks an eye open and he's amused to see that she can still glare at him with only one eye and a sex-sated body. The look is protest, love, and exhaustion in one, and he decides they have to leave their cocoon, if just to eat and fall back into it in an hour.

"I'll make good food," he coaxes, enjoying the shift in their dynamic. He likes her like this, soft, pliant, grumbling. He's never seen her this way, and wonders if she's like this with every man, or if it's just with him, only when she feels free to be herself, unguarded. He hopes she's unguarded.

She sighs and then nods into his pillow. He presses his lips to the corner of her mouth and slides off of her, standing on his tired legs. He looks back as he searches for his boxers, and she's there on her side, watching him. He strikes a pose, just to hear her snort of laughter. He's still naked, but he doesn't care. His body is the least of his worries—she's seen him in worse.

But her body is a different story, and he stumbles into his boxers as she rises from the bed, like a goddess—a dirty, unholy goddess to be sure. She's all legs and soft curves, and that smile. She know exactly what she's doing as she bends over to pick up the dress shirt in his open suitcase. He takes a few deep breaths, willing himself to stay cool so they actually get to food.

It must be the last thing on her mind, because the way she's doing up those buttons simply begs him to undo them and throw her back onto the bed. The very idea that she wants to re-seduce him nearly has him on her anyway, but he resists, can feel his stomach eating a hole in its own lining, begging for sustenance. And as much as he likes to think he could survive on her, she lacks a certain amount of real nutritional value. But her value lies in other things, things that draw him back to her, hands reaching out to feel her skin beneath his shirt.

He allows himself the curve of her neck, lets his lips and teeth nibble at her skin as he wraps himself around her just as she slides her panties up to her hips. She laughs and shimmies out of his arms, taking his hand to tug him out of the bedroom.

"You said food," she taunts as he pouts. He did, but then he felt her pressed up against him again, her body covered only by his shirt, which looks even better on her than his sweats, and his body got away from his brain.

"I was wrong," he protests, pulling her back in to press his lips to hers, triumph settling in his aching stomach when her mouth falls open beneath his.

She laughs against his lips, which does little for his ego, but quite a lot for his affection for the minx slipping out of his arms and down his large staircase. He follows her into the kitchen and finds her bent over, examining the contents of his refrigerator. He needs to remember to tip Michael for coming out to stock them up. He won't thank him for the view he's getting now—that shirt does not cover enough for her to bend over like that—that's all on Kate's slim shoulders.

"See something you like?" she asks as she turns back to him, all innocence as she pulls out a carton of eggs and bottle of milk.

"Yes," he says, giving her a playful leer as he approaches to take the eggs from her. "Omelets? I could make us something good."

She smiles. "As long as you're not slipping chocolate into my eggs, I think we're good."

"You will like my smorlette, I'm sure of it," he says as he grabs for a bowl above the marble counter. "Alexis?"

Kate nods. "She has colorful stories."

"Astounding, how you manage to get them out of her in the fifteen minutes I leave you two alone," he grumbles, moving around her to get bacon and peppers. "And are you sure I can't make us something…more like dinner?" he asks, placing the ingredients behind him as he meets her eyes.

She's leaning against the island in the middle of the room, hair falling messily around her shoulders, face lit up, glowing. He wanted to make her a great meal, wine her, dine her, and then bed her. But they've gone backward. It's their way, he supposes, and he can hardly complain, not when she's lit up like that because of him.

"Don't care so much about the kind of food," she offers easily, hopping up to perch on the island, a feat that reminds him that she's about as physically fit as a woman can be. He resolves to start jogging and to get Esposito to spar with him.

He nods once he catches her look, the one with the tight-lipped smile—the one where she's waiting on him to come out of his head. Regretfully, he turns and begins cracking eggs and heating pans. It's not nearly as pleasing to look at, but soon the kitchen fills with the smells and sounds of eggs and he hears her sigh, her bare feet hitting the floor. Then her arms wrap around him, her nose presses into his back, and he smiles.

She's affectionate—little touches, caresses, a freedom of physicality that's so far from the standard of 'don't touch' they've preserved for the better part of four years. He doesn't know what brought it on, if it's him, or if it's her, and this is who she is in love—a woman who loves with everything, from her toes to her lips, words to body.

Because he's who he is, he wants to know, has the urge to ask. But he's learned, mostly from her, that sometimes questions are better answered without words—in looks and moments and hands and hugs that say more than either could find the words to express.

So he cooks her dinner and eats with his foot wrapped around hers. He stands too close as they do dishes, flicking suds at her as she laughs. He wraps her in his arms and clicks on the record player, filling the living room with soft jazz. It's what played while he sat in the dark of the summer, staring at his empty fireplace, a gaping hole in the middle of his chest, a tandem mark to the one between her breasts.

But with her in his arms, her lips at his jaw, he finds a new appreciation for the baleful clarinet. When her lips work their way to his mouth, he thinks he might love the trumpet, but not as much as he loves the woman in his arms—this incarnation of Beckett, his Kate.

Words trip from his tongue and he doesn't bother to catch them back, to cough or rephrase his gruff, "I love you."

She hums in response, a muffled, "You too," sounding against his stubble.

He smiles against the crown of her head and watches the storm out the windows, rain barely visible as it pours down past the porch roof. Maybe she's changed him too. Maybe he notes the changes in her, in the way she holds him tight, kisses with abandon, smiles and laughs without hesitation, just as she notes them in him.

And maybe when they return to the city, they'll lose some of the magic, some of the desperate need to see and touch and feel. They'll have to play their roles, have to exist in a mold that encompasses more than them, here, free, naked in more ways than one. There's something exciting in that idea—in a them that's full of everything. In a them that's a partnership, a relationship, a life all in one.

There will be obstacles—a murder board in his office, a conspiracy at large, a barrage of paparazzi that will threaten the bubble they'll try to maintain. And he's sure he'll piss her off one day soon, and vice versa. But now they can have make-up sex, can duke it out at home and then fall frantically into bed.

The thought fills him with more glee than it should and he can't help but laugh quietly, struck by how very messed up they are, and how much he loves that about them.

"What?" she mumbles, lifting her head from its resting place on his shoulder.

"Nothing," he evades. Somehow, even with this open, giving, lovely version of her, he doesn't think mentioning his anticipation for make-up sex will go over well. She's still Kate, all of the parts of her, and he would rather have both of his ears.

She growls and nips at his jaw. He looks down at her, surprised, and finds her eyes twinkling, pleased with herself. Perhaps it's not his ears he should worry over.

"I can make you talk, you know," she taunts, a finger trailing down the side of his face to swirl along his neck, following the bob of his Adam's apple.

"I thought it was your goal in life to shut me up," he counters, letting his hands sneak below his shirt to find her hot skin.

She hums and smoothes her palm over the back of his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers. When she releases him, because now she's all control, all command, all Beckett and shit, is it hot, he takes a gulping breath and meets her darkened eyes.

"If you refuse to cooperate, Mr. Castle…"

"You'll cuff me?" he cuts in cheekily, grinning as she arches an eyebrow.

She considers him for a moment before stepping out of his arms. He reaches for her, but she prances away, nimble fingers undoing the buttons of his dress shirt one by one. He follows her, drawn to her as she steps up onto the stairs, her shirt falling open, hair tumbling down, lips flushed and plump.

"I was thinking something a little less forward," she offers, stepping up backward to escape his searching hands. He lets her. "But if you want me to cuff you…"

She trails off and turns tail, escaping up the stairs with him hot on her heels. He catches her as they crest the landing, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her to him, backing her up against the wall. Her bare calf slides over his and her hands latch onto the back of his neck. Her mouth, hot and wet, meets his with equal vigor and he delights in the little moan that escapes her throat.

He loves that sound, makes it his mission to hear it over and over and over until she can't find the words or gasps for any other sounds.

When they lie sated in his bed once more, heads at the foot, feet on the pillows, blankets somewhere out of sight, he turns to look at her, and grins as he spots the trail he's left on her body, a series of little marks he'll connect tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that.

"When it's summer, you can't use me like a hickey canvass," she sighs, following the journey of his eyes over her stomach and breasts and shoulders.

"Oh, I'll just have to change locations," he replies, too exhausted to demonstrate. "Might want to look into swim shorts."

"My skin is not your personal marking ground," she laughs, flicking his palm where her fingers have been trailing up and down for the past five minutes, keeping his nerves on fire.

"Jungle gym?"

The sharp snap of her head makes him bring his eyes to meet hers. He sees regret there, sadness, and wonders for a moment until—oh. Shit.

"Kate," he sighs, as her eyes shutter, as her breath catches.

She shakes her head, silencing him and he watches, helpless, as emotions play over her face. His hands itch to reach out for her, but he refrains, though it strains his muscles and burns at his heart.

"I've got to hand it to you, Rick," she says softly, eyes trained on the ceiling above them. "You never did walk away."

"I'm your partner," he says quickly, because the response is almost like breathing. "You're not gonna get rid of me."

Slowly, so slowly that it breaks something in his chest, she turns her head back to meet his eyes. "So I've gathered," she murmurs, and he doesn't know what to make of it. For all that she's free and open, she's still confusing as hell, and if he didn't feel like this was a sudden junction, he'd revel in that. But now—now he feels like he might be standing on a landmine and doesn't know which way is solid ground.

"Might be better for you sometimes if I could," she continues, her voice rough.

He gives in, can't help it. He hauls her into his chest, wrapping himself around her, anchoring her to him, resisting when she tries to pull away. "What happened to leaving it behind?" he says to the crown of her head.

She sighs, her breath warm across his chest. "Castle."

"If I didn't walk away then, I'm sure as hell not walking away now," he tells her, feeling the rise and fall of her shallow breath. If she can have this running under the surface while being so god damned affectionate and in love, he's a doomed, doomed man. Complicated doesn't even begin to explain her.

"I'm not asking you to," she says as she lifts a hand to hold it over his heart.

"Even if you do, I'm not going," he lets out, his own voice rough and coarse with it. Leaving her is preposterous. He's never been able to before, and it might well kill him to even consider it now.

"No," she agrees after a moment, and he hears both regret and something close to amusement in her voice. "No, I can't get rid of you, I know that."

"You better."

She shakes her head against him, her hair tickling his chin. "Might make you a bit of an idiot."

"I've been called worse," he offers, feeling his chest unthaw, his hope swelling beneath the hand she's rubbing over his skin. "And being your idiot is infinitely better than being a smart man."

She laughs and he feels the tension break—a momentary blip in this bubble of happiness they've made. "It's sick that that might be the most romantic thing I've heard in a long time," she muses, turning her face to kiss his chest.

"Gimme a month; I'll make it up to you," he says as he releases her back to run his hand through her hair.

"Please tell me you don't want to be one of those couples," she groans, closing her eyes as she breathes deeply against him, easing the knot in his chest and the tension in her back in one.

"What, you don't want to get me a hideous tie I'm forced to wear on our two-week anniversary?"

"Oh, no, that could be fun," she reneges and he whacks his head lightly against the mattress. "Might have to get Alexis in on it. It'll have to beat Jenny's."

"You're an evil woman," he decides as he rolls them over to the sound of her easy, relaxed laughter. He'll wear the damn tie. He'd wear a dress for her, and she knows it.

He'd do just about anything for the woman smiling up at him, her fingers reaching out to cup his jaw, her gaze tender. He could never walk away from her; she's it.

"If I'm evil, what does that make you?" she asks, all sass and ease.

It won't be easy, this life with her. She may be his soft Kate now, but he's just seen how quickly that can change—how easily he can tread into murky waters. But for this? For this smile and this body and the mind beneath the eyes that suck him in, he'll weather it all. He's never loved a woman like this, never lived such a life with a woman like her—never survived and thrived and loved and laughed with anyone else the way he has with her.

"It makes me a lucky, lucky man," he tells her, leaning down to fuse their lips together.

"My idiot," she breaths against his lips, and he's never heard anything so endearing, even with the lilt that tells him she's teasing him and loving him at once.

"Fool," he corrects and she pulls back, perplexed. "Fool, like a Shakespearean fool. You know, with penetrating insight beneath the stupidity."

He knows it now; her laughter is by far the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. And he gets to spend the rest of his life coaxing it out of her, fool, idiot, and love-struck man.

"I'm getting you a jester's hat to wear to work," she giggles as he leans down to nip at her neck.

"No you're not."


End file.
